


shepherd's head

by azureforest



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anger, Body Horror, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, estiniens untreated ptsd, the lack of rating is bcs i dont know if it should be t or m but its just brain wyrms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:27:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23967628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azureforest/pseuds/azureforest
Summary: the song treads the space between memory and memory, predator and prey, perpetrator and victim and victim and victim. it smothers the senses, pierces his hide.vengeance, it bellows.vengeance, estinien screams back.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	shepherd's head

the eye rolls madly, madly in its socket. fire courses through the veins, razing and warming all at once. the ruins weigh down on him, skull crushed under the weight, snow white hair a puddle of cooling ice, pale lashes closed over glassy eyes in eternal and unyielding slumber. the cracks reach into him, dig into his thoughts. they choke the mind, let the dragonspit spread into the incisions- slit pupils toss and turn, outwards, inwards, searching, cursing. it writhes in his palm. under his skin. an itch in his forearm, a throb in his shoulder- blinded by, by smoke, by fire, by blood.

it is cold. the ashes burn on his skin, alight with cinders… ferndale is burning, to the ground, to the ground. dry, cracked earth. crrrack. crack snap crack. the debris is falling on his head. the debris is falling, falling on his head. the beams, the plaster, the walls.

it is so cold. his head is so soft. his head is so soft. his head is so soft.

so soft. so easy to rend. so easy to tear. so easy to crawl in and burrow a little home into, a home with broken lamps broken windows broken walls. heated glass shatters. his head is so soft. like earth, before the scorching. the soft give of rain-soaked field under his worn, worn boots, like sheep’s wool shortly before it must be shorn. head one with home, head one with dirt, head one with the worms, wyrms, worms feasting upon his mind.

the house collapses again with a great heaving sigh, taking him into a warm embrace. the fire crackles, his heart a hearth, for he is home, he is home, he is home but he is not because that was not his body that is not his body that is not his body

his brother; poppy-speckles in snowfields, his parents; lost in embers and ash. broken croak. teary eyes. no slumber here. no home here. he is edges and points and the shattered glass. he is the earth-shaking song the mourner the survivor he is a

v

v

v

victim.

he is a victim, but not that victim. his soft, soft head was elsewhere, back then, upon the hills, among the grasses. now it bloats with business left unfinished, with the fumes from his rotting memory. the worms roar. he roars back. the chorus is deafening in its discordance. in horror-delight the eye rolls, as does his head, down, down that hill, bruised knees, scrambling hands. sulfur burns in his throat, scalding it as he screams against the sound.

the worms delight. the wyrm delights. the maggots the insects the buzzards. oh child, they beckon, closer, closer. let us feast. move on, so we may feast. stay behind, so i may speak with you. oh child, your hide is so soft, so soft. no, no he shrieks in disbelief, i will not move, i will run- rage consumes the firewood and he screams and kicks and shouts and shouts and shouts and breathes fire upon the town, breathes so much fire and anger and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and

it hurts. his hands his legs his throat his eyes, where are they. where are his eyes. where is his home? scraped and scabbed legs carry him over the ruined paths, stumbling and still screaming soundlessly, voice cauterized, stifled by the song. far, far above, he passes over himself with a great wind, a great shadow, a great, festering wound in his soul, in his skull, twin hollows once empty, half filled. molten tears carve paths into his bones, canyons into his hide- o fury, dear brother, mother, father. what did i last tell you before i left for the sheep? would dinner have been stew, as you said? weren’t we going to go fishing, down by the river? what of the lambs, the fields, the promises we joked about when neither of us wanted to sleep? what did you tell me when i left in the morning, what did you tell me as we soared the skies, what did you tell me before you left for the audience with those wretched humans, dear ratatoskr, ratatoskr. o, dear sister, ratatoskr.

he cannot remember. he remembers so clearly. he is only mortal. the wrath of a dragon echoes on for eternity. verse upon verse spills from between his teeth, wings upon wings carrying him over this- tiny- insignificant- so very significant little village, because every last one of them- every last one of them--

grass, dirt, soot under his claws. blood, blood, blood. it stains all it touches with rose petals, spice-pinches, fire ants. were the walls of our room always red? godsdamnit you idiot, i didn't snatch the cookies, stop kidding around, wake up. o, dearest sister mine, with humanity's sins pressed in melody, i shall avenge thee for eternity.

by the stars, they will pay. by the gods, by the fury, that was my family.

by halone, estinien swears.

~~this, nidhogg swears.~~

nidhogg will pay.

~~ishgard shall pay.~~

**Author's Note:**

> i think we might see something like this, if we were to wander estinien's memory- if it doesn't try to throw us out or kill us, of course. and if he'd let us. emotions kept under lock and key destroy in a different way, after all; warp and burn. like acid, like poison.
> 
> this was a little experimental- the kind of existential, rambling horror id like to write more of. i hope it was enjoyable!


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